


I'll Be Home For Christmas

by PaleMagnolia



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-09-24 19:12:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17106488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaleMagnolia/pseuds/PaleMagnolia
Summary: It's December 1920 and there's a new mistress at Loxley House: Edith Crawley, now Edith Strallan, is trying to adjust to married life and to her new home - but the shadow of Anthony's first wife lingers into the large Georgian house. Will she live up to the memory of the late Lady Strallan, or will she prove unable to hold a candle to Maud? To make things harder (or maybe easier?), Christmas is just around the corner, with everything that comes with it.Inspired by Tarlea's Andith Christmas prompt.





	1. Chapter 1

  
_I'll be home for Christmas_  
_You can plan on me_  
_Please have snow and mistletoe_  
_And presents on the tree_  
_Christmas Eve will find me_  
_Where the lovelight gleams_  
_I'll be home for Christmas_  
_If only in my dreams_

_I'll Be Home For Christmas, Bing Crosby_

...  


The months after the wedding had been a blur.

First, they had left for the honeymoon – a long sea voyage to Rome, then Florence, then Venice, a whirlwind of Romanesque churches and Renaissance villas, drinking Chianti in Piazza Santa Croce, going to the Opera in the Gran Teatro La Fenice, walking up the quiet hills of Tuscany arm in arm. She and Anthony had gotten to know each other in more ways than one: not only physically – although that was _one part_ of it, of course. They had had so little time alone with each other before the wedding: there was always somebody between them – Granny, or Papa, or Mary, or Carson or Stewart, the butler at Loxley – preventing them from talking seriously. But now, in the relative privacy of a foreign country where nobody knew them, they had all the time they could wish for to enjoy each other's company – it was almost intoxicating.

They had been alone, of course, during their first courtship - but that was before the war. Nothing had been the same after that. Anthony had come back a different man, a changed man, and Edith was not sure she knew this man all that well; oh, he was still the kind, unassuming, gentle soul who had warmed her heart in 1914, but now there was something else about him, a sense of sobriety and restraint that wasn't there before… Some kind of sadness, of remoteness, was now present in the back of his eyes. Sometimes, when people spoke to him, he smiled as politely as always, but Edith could see he looked through them, past them, to some place of pain they could not enter, to some private hell they could not share.

In Italy, she started to get to know this new Anthony; she had been fond of the lively, spirited gentleman who courted her in 1914, but she loved the quiet, withdrawn man he had become much more tenderly. She, too, was a different woman: she felt she was more mature, more compassionate. Sybil had said she was far nicer now than she was before the war; she didn't know whether or not her sister was right, but she knew she had changed. Seeing all that wounded soldiers, tending to their needs, had given her a new perspective on life. Both of them had gone through their private war and they had risen from the ashes of their former selves, not unscathed of course, but maybe stronger; and sometimes, catching his smile, Edith knew their memories of the war united them, and they marched in unison.

By the time they were back in England, Sybil had given birth to a baby girl they had named Deirdre, much to the dismay of Papa and Granny, who had hoped for a more traditional "Victoria", "Alexandra" or "Elizabeth". They had gone to see the baby, of course, and then they had to make a compulsory round of visits to relatives and friends: it took much more time and effort than Edith thought it would. They had to smile and repeat all the funny stories from their honeymoon (how Anthony's luggage had been lost for several days and he had to go to dinner in a black tie, how they almost got run over by an omnibus in the mad traffic of Rome) over and over. They had gifts to hand out, tales to share. Edith had learnt a few words in Italian and she repeated them to her family's amusement.

The year 1920 was coming to an end when Edith finally started to settle down in Loxley.

She was now Lady Strallan, and she had a household of her own to manage: she intended to perform the duties her new role required as well as she could. She was hopeful and eager, filled with an intense desire to please.

"Don't do anything too fast." she remembered Isobel telling her, the night before the wedding. "It takes time to know how a house works"

She had agreed with her, but she did not know, back then, how much of a strain it was going to be for her to adjust to her new role. It was strange to be on her own – without Mama or Papa or her sisters at her side. In her life, there had always been somebody to tell her what she was supposed to do: how she was supposed to behave, what she was supposed to eat, whom she was supposed to talk to at dinner. It was Mama who arranged the tables when they entertained, Mama who decided what food to serve, which direction the conversation will start in and which topic were allowed at the table and which weren't.

But now, she was on her own, and it was scary. Exciting, of course, but scary. She had to plan the menus for the week, organize dinner parties. She had to choose carefully how to seat guests around the table when they entertained, taking into consideration both rank and mutual likes and dislikes; she had to pay and receive calls; she had to give directions to the cook, the gardener, the entire staff. She always thought having her own house to manage would have been lots of fun, but it was exhausting. "There was always something that needed her attention: everyone referred to her to know what to do - which food to prepare, which curtains to hang, which room to accomodate guests in. Running a place like Loxley, she quickly learnt, was a full-time job.

"I don't know how you do it, Mama", she had told Cora over tea on a few occasions.

"Oh, my dear, you'll get the hang of it in no time at all." her mother would reassure her. But she was not so sure about that; in theory, she knew how to manage the mansion and the staff, how to entertain and how to be the perfect hostess, the perfect mistress of the house, but she lacked practice, and she was afraid to prove a disappointment to her husband.

Anthony, dear, kind, understanding Anthony! He never criticized her, not even once, never found fault with her, no matter what she did, how many mistakes she made; he would look up at her and smile. "You mustn't let it worry you" he would say, whenever she made a wrong move "managing this house is something you will have to get used to."

He was invariably considerate and kindhearted, and the last thing Edith wanted was to let him down. She loved him so: she could not bear the thought he might regret his decision to marry her.

Edith couldn't help but think her husband was bound to make comparisons between her and his first wife; she knew he had been very fond of Maud; he spoke of her often and in affectionate terms. The staff, too, had been fond of the late Lady Strallan, she could tell. That made her nervous, insecure: she could picture them looking at her and saying to one another "What a dull girl. What does Sir Anthony see in her?" When they had guests over, she was often apprehensive; she was not used to entertain - not as the mistress of the house, anyway: Mama was the one who managed it all, back at Downton - and no matter how kind her guests were to her, how warmly they smiled at her, she thought she could read it in every eye: "She's so different from Maud." She thought she could see derision and contempt in her eyes, even when there was none.

The servant – Stewart, the butler, Mrs Havers, the housekeeper, Carter, the chauffeur, then Cook and the maids - were always impeccably respectful to her, but Edith knew, deep in their heart, they compared her – young, inexperienced, lackluster Edith, who spoke hesitantly and was so eager to impress – with Maud: elegant, accomplished, well-traveled Maud, who surely ruled the household with a firm hand and knew how to entertain properly.

Mrs Havers, in particular, seemed to have been particularly fond of her former mistress. One day, when Edith was writing invitations for a dinner party to be held later that week, Mrs Havers had come into the parlour.

"Lady Strallan" she started (Edith still wasn't used to her new name) "I'm sorry to disturb you. I've given Cook the menu of the day, and Cook says she is not sure what side dish you wish to serve with the roast pheasant."

"Oh?" Edith had put down the pen.

"Lady Strallan – the late Lady Strallan, I mean - was most particular about side dishes. She always chose seasonal vegetables, and she wished them to be arranged in a way that treated the eye. She was most peculiar about the way the finished dishes should look."

"Oh" Edith said, again. She was struggling to understand what was expected of her. For her, food was just that - food. "I… I hardly know; I think we'll have whatever you think the former Lady Strallan would have ordered."

"Of course. If that's what you wish" Mrs Havens had said, and Edith could swear she detected a note of pity, or contempt, in her voice. "You have no preference, M'lady?"

"Not really, no" Edith had answered, feeling disappointed in herself for her lack of confidence and personality. Mary would have known what to say, she thought. Mary had never been afraid to speak her mind; unlike her, she always had very strong opinions. Mary was born to be the mistress of a large house, but she, Edith, was not sure the same applied to her.

There had been other conversations like that, other times she had felt she was unfit for her role. One time, she had expressed the intention to take the car and drive to Ripon to run some errands, and Stewart, the butler, almost had a heart attack.

"Drive, M'lady?" he had stuttered, as if it was the most absurd thing he had ever heard in his life.

Edith frowned. She could not see what the problem was. Back at Downton, she had driven the car several times. "Yes. I rather like driving, and I'm perfectly capable of doing so. I've learnt during the war."

"But, M'lady…" the old man looked as if he was at a loss for words. "We… we have a chauffeur ready to drive you wherever you like. There is no need for you to drive yourself, no need at all."

"I know. But, you see, I am rather fond of driving, and I don't see why I… oh, goodness, what's the matter?" she asked, seeing the poor man's face turn an alarming shade of grey.

The butler looked extremely ill at ease. "M'lady… It's – it's not my place to say…"

She sighed. "Please, go on. I insist."

He looked at her with an upset expression on his face. "Lady Strallan – I mean, the former Lady Strallan, bless her soul…"

"Yes?" Edith was starting to grow sick of it: the constant reminder of what her predecessor did or didn't do.

"Well, you see, she would never… I mean, she would have never…" he could not go on. Servants were not supposed to offer any opinion to their employers, and Stewart was old school. No matter how badly he might have wanted to speak, his training prevented him from saying anything that could be seen as criticism to the mistress of the house.

Edith crossed her arms. "Oh, for goodness' sake, just say it: the late Lady Strallan would have never driven a car herself: it is improper for a woman and disgraceful for a lady, and by doing it I would bring ill repute on the whole house."

Stewart's eyes were pleading. "Oh, M'lady - please understand, I would never say - I would never think -"

Edith had sighed. "All right, all right. No need to go on. I'll have Carter drive me to Ripon, if that'll put your mind at rest."

Everything she did, she felt the shadow of Maud Strallan lingering over her. Maud would have never done this. Maud would have never chosen that. Maud here, Maud there. Whenever she tried to make changes at Loxley, the staff answered describing how Maud had ran it when she was alive. Edith hoped she could eventually make people accept her as the new Lady Strallan; but for the time being, she had to endure the seemingly neverending comparisons.

To make things even more challenging, Christmas was just around the corner, and that meant more dinner parties, more entertaining, more decisions to take; all she could do was try her best and hope not to make too much of a mess out of it.


	2. The tree

Christmas at Loxley had been a quiet affair for many years, Edith knew. More than quiet, actually: nonexistent. After Maud’s death, Anthony had stopped celebrating it altogether. He usually avoided being home during the holidays: he stayed in his apartment in London from early December to late January, spending long hours at his gentlemen’s club, drinking sherry and playing cards with other lonely members of the English aristocracy.  
“Christmas is a family celebration: when you have no family, it can be quite a lonely time of year” he had told her, with an apologetic smile.  
“But you have a family now.” He had been lonesome for too long, and Edith was determined to change that.  
His face had twitched into a smile at those words. “Yes, I believe I do.”  
“And we _are_ going to celebrate Christmas this year.” She smiled, but her voice was firm. “That’s all there is to it.” 

…

Edith loved Christmastime: back at Downton Abbey, Christmas was a grand affair: they always put up a colossal pine tree - heavy with sparkling ornaments – in the great hall; they had garlands and tinsel, holly and mistletoe decorating the stairs and the halls; the scent of pine resin and Mrs Patmore’s gingerbread biscuits filled the air.  
The Crawleys threw lavish parties, played bridge games and charades, exchanged gift, played music, danced. Sometimes, they hired a small orchestra to play for them, but often Edith, the only one of the Crawley sisters who could play the piano decently (Mary never bothered to learn how to read music, and Sybil was much more skilled at drawing or embroidering), played festive songs in the drawing room, while her parents and her sisters sang. Their voices rang high and clear and silvery within the walls of her childhood home. _Deck the Hall, I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, O Holy Night_ ; all of the good, old carols, conjuring images of peace and happiness.

About a week before Chistmas, Anthony had to go up to London to some public dinner - something to do with the county. He was supposed to be away for a few days, and Edith was left alone at Loxley to deal with the preparations for the Christmas Eve dinner party. Her parents, Granny, Mary and Matthew were supposed to come over, to exchange presents and see how the house renovation process was going; Tom and Sybil were going to bring the baby girl over, too - assuming Sybil was well enough and felt like traveling (the birth had been a difficult one, and had left the younger Crawley girl quite weak). Edith had asked Cousin Isabel to join them, too. She was part of the family, now; beyond that, she had always been very kind to Edith, and she and Anthony seemed to get along quite well.  
Edith wanted to surprise them with a grand celebration, show everyone how good of a hostess she could be. But above all, she wanted Anthony to feel like he had a family to come back to and celebrate with - and a house that was no longer quiet, bare and empty, but brightly lit, warm and joyful.

…

“Oh, Stewart, I was just looking for you.” Edith strolled down the corridor to meet the elderly butler.  
“M’lady?” he respectfully bowed his head.  
“I need you to help me with something. I’d like the sofa in the library to be removed, and the armchairs to be pushed against the wall, out of the way. Do you think you can arrange that?"  
“… Remove the sofa, M’lady?” the old man blinked, baffled. “W-what for?”  
“Because we shall have a big Christmas tree standing in the middle of the room, in front of the fireplace.”  
“A – a _tree_ , M’lady?” he stared at her as if she had suddenly grown a third eye. “In the _library_?”  
Edith stared back at him. “Goodness, I didn’t expect it to be such a shocking notion” she said, and she smiled. “It’s Christmas. Why _wouldn’t_ we have a tree?”  
“M’lady, it’s just that… we haven’t had one in _years_.” He looked puzzled. “And, M’lady, forgive me for saying so, but we always put up the Christmas tree in the hall, not the library, when the master still -” he stopped abruptly; he recovered gracefully by saying “… when the master entertained for the holidays.” but Edith knew what he was about to say: _when Anthony still cared about Christmas_. “But nowadays the master is rarely home during the holidays.”  
“I know.” Edith nodded and sighed. “Anthony told me he usually goes up to his London house. But I want this to change: I want to make Loxley the most festive house in all of Yorkshire.” She smiled. “And another thing I want to change is the place we put up the tree. I decided it’s going to be in the library, because it’s the room Anthony and I like most.”  
He still looked perplexed. “Very well, M’lady” he said dubiously.  
“Then it’s settled.” Edith smiled. “Where can I find all of the Christmas ornaments to decorate the tree?”  
Stewart stared at her, confused. “Oh… oh, dear, M’lady… I’m not sure. It’s been years since the last time they have been used.”  
“But surely there must be something left – from the time you did.” Edith smiled again, encouragingly.  
“Well…” he frowned, as if he found it hard to remember. “The late Lady Strallan used crystal baubles and ornaments she had brought back from Germany – very delicate little things, they were, M’lady. She used to wrap them in cotton cloth and store them into boxes at the end of the holidays, but I’m afraid most of them have been lost or broken during the years.”  
“Oh, what a pity!” Edith’s smile faded.  
“But…” the elderly man knitted his eyebrows. “If I remember correctly, M’lady, there must be a couple of large trunks, up in the attic, where we stored the decorations from the time the master and Miss Eleanor – I mean, Mrs Chetwood – were children.” Stewart was an old servant, and had known Anthony and his sister when they were kids: he sometimes still called Mrs Chetwood by her given name, rather than her married name. he also sometimes called Anthony “Master Anthony” instead of “Sir Anthony”, because he had known him long before he inherited the title.  
Edith livened up again. “Splendid! Can we have them brought into the library?”  
“Of course, M’lady… if you wish. But they are quite old, I’m afraid.”  
“I’m sure we can make something out of them. I’ll add ribbons, and tinsel, and… oh, and lights. We must buy electric string lights like the ones we have at Downton. They look lovely, and it’s much safer than having candles burning so close to the books.”

…

She had requested the gardener to cut branches of greenery (cypress, holly, fir) and prepare large wreaths and garlands to decorate the stairs, halls, and the front door: now jolly green festoons draped the banisters and hanged from doorways and fireplaces.  
She had also asked him to venture into the woods with a few workers to find an adequately sized pine tree, cut it down and bring it back to the house. The men had come back with a huge tree in the back of one of Loxley’s trucks, and they had placed it – huffing and puffing - into the large library.  
“Will it do, M’lady?” Barnes, the gardener, asked, with his hands on his hips and a smile on his face, when the tree finally stood in all of its green glory in the center of the room. It was over ten feet tall and rather large: the scent of its resin filled the place.  
“I’m sure it will” Edith smiled back. “It looks absolutely magnificent. Thank you, Barnes.”  
The man nodded and smiled again. “It’s been a while since the last time I’ve been asked to bring a Christmas tree into the house. It warms one’s heart, really, to see Loxley all decked and festive again… if you don’t mind me saying so, M’lady.”  
Edith’s smile widened. “I don’t mind at all.” It was the first time someone expressed appreciation for what she was doing, instead of looking down at her. “Oh, and Barnes - you did a great job with the wreaths: they look lovely.”  
“Thank you, M’lady.” He nodded again, smiled and tipped his hat. “I’d better go put the truck back into the garage, now.”  
“Of course.”  
As he was getting out, Stewart came into the library: he stared at the tree, looking quite impressed.  
“Well, Stewart: what do you think of it?”  
“It’s… very _large_ , M’lady.” he said, without committing himself too much. “The valets are bringing the trunks down from the attic” he added. As he was talking, a couple of young men came in, carrying two heavy-looking wooden cases. Under Edith’s direction, they put them down under the tree: she felt a surge of excitement rise inside her. She smiled and kneeled down on the carpet to open them, feeling like a child opening a treasure chest. Inside the trunks, she found an array of lovely old trinkets: candle holders, wooden figures, wire wrapped glass baubles, silver bells, paper-mache cherubs, painted clay sculptures. The old tinsel was falling to pieces here and there, but the ornaments were mostly intact, if a bit dusty.  
“How lovely!” she whispered, running her fingers over the old, delicate decorations. She picked up a tin star, then a small porcelain angel, a glass snowflake. She laid them on the carpet.  
“How old are those?” she asked, without looking up. She kept picking small objects from the trunks. Painted tin figurines in the shape of pinecones, walnuts, gingerbread houses.  
“Oh, I really couldn’t say, M’lady. Some of them must be quite old: the metal ones are from Queen Victoria’s time, I believe. Others were purchased when the master and Miss Elean – Mrs Chetwood were children, in the 1870s.”  
“I see… Oh, look at that! How pretty!” Edith said, holding a brightly colored tin soldier in her hand.  
“Sir Anthony’s father brought it back from one of his trips to London. It was Sir Anthony’s favorite.” Stewart said, and there was a note of fondness in his voice.  
“Oh? Really?” Edith turned and looked up at him. She knew Stewart had been butler at Loxley since the time Anthony was a child; she had longed to ask him about it, but the elderly man had always looked so formal, so distant…  
But now, he seemed ready to open up a bit more; he rocked back and forth on his heels, and a trace of a smile appeared on his lips. “When the master was a boy, he used to dig for it among the other ornaments, put it aside, and keep it for last. He and Mrs Chetwood used to fight over who could hang it.”  
Edith saw he had let off his guard a bit and decided to try and take the opportunity. “What was he like? As a boy, I mean?” she asked, hesitantly.  
“The master? Oh, he was such a sweet child. Always so kind to everyone, he was - and bright! Oh, he was a smart lass, Master Anthony” There was unmistakable pride ringing in his voice. “That’s why they sent him to Austria and Germany to try and talk some sense in Kaiser Wilhelm’s head. He was the right man for the job; it didn’t work, in the end, because the Kaiser was a madman, but he was the only one who could have stopped him, if you ask me, M’lady.”  
Edith smiled. She knew Stewart was devoted to Anthony, but there was an almost fatherly tone in his voice when he spoke of him. It reminded her of the was Carson doted on Mary.  
She put the ornaments down and folded her hands in her lap. “I wish I had known Anthony back then.” She smiled. “What a darling child he must have been.”  
“He was, M’lady.” This time, Stewart’s smile wasn’t just a shadow.  
“Tell me more about him.”


	3. Chapter 3 - Preparations

The maids kept finding excuses to come upstairs to admire the tree and the decorations. Edith pretended not to notice - in fact, she was glad about it: it was about time for Loxley to come out of its sleep. Maids excitedly giggling behind doors and valets bustling about were just proof the old Georgian home was coming back to life again.

After decorating the house to her heart's delight, she was now busy with the preparations of Christmas Eve dinner party. It was the first time her family came to Loxley for a formal event, and she wanted the evening to be a success, so she could prove everyone – especially Papa and Granny - that she was a capable and accomplished hostess… and an adequate wife for Anthony. She knew Granny, for one, still disapproved of her marriage.

"So how's everything going, Edith dear?" the Dowager had asked over tea, during a visit, about three days before Christmas.

"Quite well, thank you" she smiled weakly. She was in the midst of preparations, and the menu for the dinner was driving her mad.

"Where is Anthony?"

"In London. He had a dinner with some politician or diplomat or something like that. He didn't want to go, but it's part of his job for the county."

"A political dinner? Oh dear, what a ghastly thing to do during the holidays." She took a sip from her cup of tea. "Will he be home for Christmas Eve? I've seen so little of him lately."

Edith suppressed a smile. Anthony seemed to vanish into thin air every time he say Lady Grantham's car approaching. He knew Edith's grandmother looked down at him and he made every effort to avoid any unpleasant confrontation. "Of course. He'll be there in time for the big dinner."

"Doesn't he usually spend the holidays in his London house?"

Edith arched her eyebrows. "Yes, he used to - when he had no family to celebrate with. But this time is different, of course… and I hope you will all make an effort to make him feel like he has got a family, now."

Her grandmother's weight shifted on the chair and her back stiffened. "When have we _ever_ done anything _less_?"

Edith tried not to roll her eyes. She knew how stiff and hostile her grandmother and Papa had been towards Anthony, and her blood still boiled at the thought of the way they treated him – her kind, understanding Anthony who never complained but, Edith knew, was nonetheless deeply hurt by their cold shoulder.

She was dying to snap back at her grandmother, but she didn't want to start a fight – not now. "Just try to be welcoming, will you, Granny? For me?"

The Dowager snorted. "I will be as gentle as a lamb."

Edith sighed. " _Granny…_ "

"I _will_!" the elderly lady pursed her lips. She then changed the subject. "I see you've done some decorating – the house looks quite festive with all the garlands and tinsel hanging everywhere."

Edith came alive. "Yes. Do you like it?"

"You did a good job with what you had to work with" she said, a double-edged compliment. Edith knew what her grandmother meant: Loxley was in need of some renovating, and no amount of wreaths and ornaments could hide that. But she had a hard enough time just persuading the staff to decorate the house – refurbishing it was a battle for another time.

"How are you doing with so much change so quickly? You're a wife, now, living in a new place. You're the lady of this house now. Is it quite how you would have imagined it?"

"Well…" Edith coudn't confide in her about the difficulties she had been meeting in managing the household: she walked on eggshells, knowing Granny would have used every grievance as an excuse to gloat. The Dowager Countess had been violently against the wedding from the beginning; she was slowly coming to terms with the fact her granddaughter was now Sir Anthony's wife, but she was still sore over the fact that her opinion had been disregarded. So, now and then, when she talked to Edith, she dropped a zinger or a snide remark.

"It must be quite hard for you" the Dowager went on, without waiting for an answer. Her tone was as sweet as molasses, and Edith knew she was going to take a dig at her. "The servants must still be very devoted to the memory of the late Lady Strallan, I presume?"

Edith opened and closed her mouth. Her grandmother sure had an instinct to find her target's weaknesses. "Well, she – I mean, I…"

"Maud seems to have been so good at everything, or so everyone is telling me. She ran the whole house herself, too. I guess you're not quite there yet."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Granny" Edith groaned quietly in her cup of tea.

The Dowager smiled. "Oh, well, we can't all do everything: I suppose you'd better leave it to the housekeeper: you are very young, my dear, aren't you? No doubt, in time, when you have settled down properly, you'll be able to put you own mark on the house."

In time, yes. Edith thought, bitterly. She had decided, in that moment, it was going to happen sooner rather than later. Back at Downton, her prettier, more accomplished sisters always outshined her: she was not going to let the ghost of a deceased woman outweigh her in her new home.

She was sick of living in someone else's shadow.

…

"I'd like to serve roast quail with glazed grapes. We've had it at Lady Jarvis' house, last month, and it was just delicious." Edith didn't think they ever had quails in Downton, and she was eager to impress her family with some new dish.

"Roast quail, M'lady?" Cook – a red-faced woman in her sixties - knitted her eyebrows. "But - I've never cooked that, I'm not sure we can arrange -"

Edith was prepared to face some resisting. "I asked Lady Jarvis to send me the recipe, and I've already sent an order for the quails and the other ingredients."

"I don't think I can work from a new receipt at a moment's notice, M'lady…"

"Oh, but it doesn't look much different to prepare than a roast pheasant, and nothing can quite measure up with your roast pheasants. When Mrs Chetwood came to dinner, a few weeks ago, she said it was just divine, and you know how peculiar she is with her food!" She hoped a bit of gentle flattery would soften her up.

It did. "Well, M'lady, no one beats my roasts, if I do say so myself." Cook blushed with pleasure at the compliment.

"You must give Mrs Patmore, up at the Abbey, some advice." Edith leaned forward and lowered her voice, as if to tell a secret. "She's a marvelous cook, of course, but her roasts are a bit on the tough side, if you know what I mean."

Cook chuckled. "Aye, M'lady, not everyone can do a tender roast. Me mother taught me the secret to make 'em melt in the mouth."

"Marvelous!" Edith smiled. "After that, we'll have braised belly pork and pigs heart in red wine, if that's all right with you?"

"Of course, M'lady. Never had a problem with pork." She chuckled.

"I'm sure of that!" Edith shook her head smiling.

"Is there some difficulty, M'lady?" said a voice behind her. Edith turned to see Mrs Havers, who had just entered the kitchen. The housekeeper was staring at her with a quizzical expression on her face.

"No, thank you, Mrs Havers." Edith turned serious. "Cook and I were just putting the finishing touches to the Christmas dinner menu. I decided to add a course of roast quail."

Mrs Havers folded her hands in front of her. "Of course, M'lady." The expression on her face was incomprehensible. Did she inwardly laugh at her? Was she just surprised to find her in the kichen? Edith could not tell.

"If you wish for anything else to be changed please say so," she added, "and I will give orders at once."

"Thank you, Mrs Havers. I will."

…

 

It had started snowing again. It had been snowing on and off for days, and Edith stared at the lonely flakes of snow floating past the window, hoping the weather would clear. Anthony was surely on his way home, and she worried he might get snowbound. He had told her he hoped to be home in time for dinner, but not to wait up for him if he was late. She looked at the white sky for a few moments, then she resumed what she was doing. She was writing the last Christmas cards: she had mailed the ones that she couldn't deliver by hand days ago (Aunt Rosamund and Mrs Chetwood had already received theirs), but she had delayed writing the ones to give her parents and her sisters. _My sincerest good wishes…_ The scratch of her pen on the paper rasped loud in the silence. _The happiest of Happy Christmases…_ She stopped to brush a hand over her lids. There was so much to do, so much to organize, so many things to think about… And the big dinner was the next day. 

Lost in thought, she failed to notice the sound of a car approaching the house. Only when she heard the front door close, she lifted her head. _Who could it be, now...?_

"…Oh, thank you, Stewart." a familiar voice said in the hall. "Where's my wife?"

" _Anthony!_ " she put the pen down on the table, jumped up and ran out of the room to meet him. Overwhelmed by the preparations, she hadn't realized how lonely she had been without him around: but now, hearing his voice, she felt absurdly excited that her husband was home again.

"Oh, you're here, my darling. Come and say hello to a frozen old man!" When he saw her, he smiled and nodded at the garlands hanging from the stairs. "Look at that! For a moment, I thought I got into the wrong house"

He took his hat off, shaking a dusting of snow off of it, chucking, and Edith ran into his arms. There was snow on the shoulders of his overcoat, and he smelled like damp wool.

"It's so good to see you!" Edith kissed him and buried her face in his coat. "I didn't expect you home till this evening!"

"I left London earlier: didn't want to get stuck in the snow" he said. "But it looks like you're doing all right without me here."

"I'm doing my best." She took his hand in hers. "But I hated you being away. I've missed you terribly, you know." she said.

"Have you?' he said, smiling. "But I've only been in London for one week."

"Well, it was one week too many."

They did not say anything for a bit; she just held his hand, smiling.

"Come with me, now" she said, after a moment. "I've got something to show you."


	4. Journey to the past

"Come with me – no, no, this way, _this way_ … Careful not to bump into the furniture."

"How do you expect me to be careful when I can't see a damn _thing_?" he laughed.

Edith was blindfolding Anthony with her hands, and trying to guide him into the library. It was a somewhat difficult business, given he was so tall and leggy, and she was about ten inches shorter than him.

"Where are you taking me?" he chuckled. " _Edith_? Where are we going?"

"Just one moment – no peeking, _no peeking_!" she clumsily steered him into the room, her arms outstretched, her hands over his eyes.

"There" she said uncovering his eyes and smiling excitedly. "What do you think?"

The tree glimmered warmly in front of them, all green and red and silver, magnificent with its blinking lights and its glimmering tinsel.

"Oh!" Anthony blinked a few times and looked around the room, surprised. Edith scrutinized his face, attentively looking for a sign of approval or displeasure, but the expression in his eyes was hard to read.

"What a change!" He took a few steps towards the tree. "I must say, this tree is _quite_ impressive!"

"It's over ten feet tall. It took three men to bring it in there."

"I can imagine." He took a step towards it, then he turned back to her with one of his half-smiles. "But, tell me - whatever happened to the sofa?" he said with a chuckle.

Her smile faded to an anxious expression. "I had it moved into the drawing room. It's only temporary, of course" she said quickly. Then, when he didn't respond, she added, somewhat tentatively: "You're not – _upset_ , are you? That I have done all this without checking with you first?"

Anthony turned to face her: she was looking at him with an intent, apprehensive expression on her face. "Upset - why on Earth would I be _upset_?" He blinked in surprise; for reasons that were beyond him, his wife was prone to think of herself as a constant disappointment – she was always on edge, always ready to apologize. He smiled reassuringly at her. "My darling - it's the best surprise I've had in years! It is marvelous to come home to such a jolly display of holiday cheer!"

"Really?" He saw her nervous expression relax into a gratified one and he marveled once more at how little his wife required to be content. He remembered the time he told Robert how he meant to do his level best to keep Edith happy, but it was turning out to be an easier task than he expected it to be: all he had to do was acknowledge her efforts, appreciate what she did, encourage her.

"Of course!" He took a step towards her and took her hand in his. "How could you ever think I would be anything other than happy about it?"

Edith squeezed his hand and offered him an apologetic smile. "I don't know… I thought" she shrugged. "I thought maybe you don't like changes. Maybe you'd rather keep things as they have always been."

He smiled again. "Oh, my dearest." He said, fondly, and he kissed her on her forehead. "This house has been in dire needs of changes for _years_ … and there's nobody I'd rather ask to make those changes than you. Now, let's get a better look at this tree!"

…

"Well? What do you think of it?"

He touched a glass ornament lightly. "I remember this one." He said, pensively. "And this one, too. And this –" He turned to her, half-smiling. "The Christmas ornaments of my childhood. Where did you find those?"

"In the attic. Stewart had two footmen bring them down. You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not." His slow smirk turned into a smile while he played absent-mindedly with a painted bauble. "I haven't seen them in – oh, well over thirty years! I had half-forgotten they even existed. Maud put them away when she bought the crystal baubles in Bavaria, but I've always liked them better. Call me sentimental, but – as worn and faded as they might be, they hold a special meaning to me."

He turned to Edith. "That tree reminds me so much of my childhood Christmases." he smiled fondly at the memory. "I loved the holidays, you know. I so looked forward to them: they meant being back from school - back at home, with Papa and Mama and Eleanor… exchanging gifts, singing together, playing games..."

Edith knew (he had told her one night) he had never been much happy at school. His father, Sir Phillip (a well-meaning, but unimaginative country gentleman) had sent eight-year-old Anthony - a shy, sensible child with a love of books and music - to a brutal boarding school in Scotland, in order to toughen him up. And it had worked – up to a point. By the time he went to Eton College, Anthony had grown into a resolute, broad-shouldered young man with a military distinction about him. But he never really got over his bashfulness, and he always, always suffered from acute homesickness whenever he was away from Yorkshire: he had always been happier at Loxley than anywhere else. Edith stepped forward to hug him from behind, her arms coming around him, her head resting against his shoulder. He covered her hands with his.

Sometimes she was still, somewhat, amazed at the easy, pleasant intimacy that had formed between the two of them; it was so different from the gawky formality of their courtship – in a good way. It reminded Edith of her parents' marriage – the affectionate little looks and gestures they exchanged, the casual yet deliberate fashion in which they brushed each other's arm or shoulder in passing. She had envied them, envied Sybil and Tom, Mary and Matthew. But now, Edith felt that the time of envy, the time of jealousy, had come to an end. She finally had everything she had ever hoped for – not only a husband, a house of her own and a position, but a partner in life, someone who understood her and appreciated her, and someone she understood and appreciated in return. A kindred spirit.

"When we were children - me and Mary and Sybil – we used to sneak out of the nursery to peek at the tree." she said, her face buried into the back of his jacket.

He smiled: she couldn't see his face, but she felt it in the way his shoulder blades shifted slightly. "We did the same thing - Eleanor and me. We would wait for Mama and Papa to go to bed, then we would crawl out of our beds to come downstairs and sit under it, enchanted by its beauty. It was quite magical."

"So… do you like this one? Does it look like the Christmas trees of your childhood?"

He turned, took one of Edith's hands in his, brought it to his mouth and kissed her fingers.

"I feel as if I have gone back in time – to some warm, safe place I used to know. I adore it." He looked up at the huge tree, all lit up, with tinsel and garlands and baubles hanging from its branches, a sparkling emblem of Christmas magic; then he looked down at her. "And, now that I think of it, the tree is not the _only_ thing in this room that I adore." He pulled her closer. "Come on, give your husband a kiss."

Edith was happy to oblige, and they kissed under the glimmering tree – a greeting-card-perfect picture of domestic bliss. "Oh, but wait!" Edith broke away from him and rummaged in her pocket. "I almost forgot: I have something for you!"

"Here." She opened her hand to reveal the tin toy soldier of Anthony's childhood. "I saved it so you could hang it on the tree yourself."

"Oh, look at that!" Anthony smiled - the wide, warm smile of a child. "The little soldier! Me and Eleanor used to fight over the privilege to hang it." He chuckled fondly at the memory and he looked at his wife. She could tell he was touched by her small gesture. "My sweet one. How did you know it was my favorite?"

"Stewart told me."

Anthony shook his head. "I'm rather surprised he remembers."

"You shouldn't be; he remembers a lot of things." She smiled. "He's very devoted to you, you know."

"I do, and I must say I'm very fond of him, too. He can be a tad stiff, poor chap, but he has a heart of gold. I hope one day you'll see it, too."

Edith grinned. "I think I am already starting to."

…

They went to bed early, right after dinner: Anthony was tired from the long journey back from London.

"Are you nervous for tomorrow night?" he asked as he slipped in bed with her. At the beginning of their marriage, he had been cautious about the idea of sleeping in the same bed with his wife – Maud and him had slept in separate rooms for their whole married life, and it seemed odd to him to do otherwise – but Edith had been adamant about keeping up with her parents' tradition.

He ended up liking it much more than he had expected. In the comfortable darkness of their shared room, with Edith's warm soft frame snuggled against his body, he found himself able to talk about things he would have never approached in the broad daylight of a living room. His face buried in her hair, he found out he could talk about his war memories and childhood dreams, about Maud's illness and the endless string of stillborn children that she had delivered. She, in return, had told him in a quiet voice about the Canadian soldier who claimed to be Patrick Crawley, about the maimed oficiers she had nursed when Downton served as a convalescent home, about her struggle to adapt to post-war life.

Edith let out a short, tense laugh. "A little. You'd be nervous, too, if you knew my family the way I do."

"I know them well enough" he said, and there was the subtlest hint of bitterness in his voice. The relationship between Anthony and his in-laws had improved quite a bit lately (largely due to Cora's benevolent efforts), but there was still some simmering tension between them. "But don't fret, my dearest. It's just a dinner. It'll be all right."

"I hope so." she fiddled with the ribbon on the neckline of her nightgown. "I'd hate to disappoint them." she raised her eyebrow. "Especially Granny – she's surely looking forward to the opportunity to pinpoint my every mistake. Her greatest pleasure in life is telling people what they're doing wrong with their lives, you know."

He let out a sigh. "Is she still upset about the wedding?" The Dowager's disapproval was still a sore point for him.

"It's not that, exactly" Edith snuggled closer to him and placed a hand on his chest. "Please, Anthony, stop beating yourself up about this. She doesn't hold anything against you, truly." She lifted her head to look at him. "It's just that she can't stand it when she doesn't have it all her own way."

He kissed the top of her head. "I know. I just wish she would relent and leave us be."

"She will. Eventually. I assure you. She welcomed Tom in the family, in the end, so there's no reason she won't come around on you, too. But it might take a while." she sighed. "She's a tough one."

He laughed, a humorless little snort. "You could say that."

She turned on her back and stared at him. "You understand why it's so important to me, don't you? The dinner, I mean. It's the perfect chance to show them I know what I'm doing, and I can manage perfectly well without them meddling, thank you very much."

"That's the spirit." he chuckled and brushed a stray lock of her hair from her forehead. "You'll show them what you're made of."

She looked at him sideways, with a grin. " _We'll_ show them, you mean. I have no intention to face my family all on my own" She raised her eyebrows. "We're in this together, my dear - you'll have to pull your weight and make sure we put on a great show"

"All right." His shoulders shook with stifled laughter. " _Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage, for the first time here at Loxley House, The Strallan Duo - hosts extraordinaire!_ "

"The Strallan Duo!" she laughed. "I like the sound of that!" she glanced at him again. "We'll give them the best double act since Gallagher and Shean." she crinkled her nose. "We shall leave the audience breathless, tomorrow."

"What about tonight?" He raised an eyebrow and turned his face to her. "Shall we have a dress rehearsal – or better yet, an _un_ dress rehearsal?"

Edith raised herself on her elbows and gave him a look of mock indignation. "Sir Anthony _Strallan_! I though you said you were tired from the journey!"

"Did I?" he said, with a devilish grin.


	5. Breakfast table

When they got down for breakfast, in the morning of Christmas Eve, a clean expanse of snow stretched white and twinkling as far as they could see.

"Oh, dear" Edith said, staring out the window, biting her lips. "I hope the snow isn't blocking all the roads, or they won't be able to come tonight."

 _'They'_ , Anthony knew, were her parents, her sisters, the Dowager Countess and Lady Rosamund Painswick. All she could think about was that damned dinner - Anthony almost wished three feet of snow had fallen during the night, instead of those few inches. How nice and cozy it would be, to be snowbound at Loxley, just him and Edith, with the Crawleys effectively snowed-in, and the Dowager Countess unable to pester them for at least a month...

"Don't worry, it's just a light dusting. They'll manage just fine." he stepped closer to her and briefly kissed the top of her head. "Besides, what would an old-fashioned Christmas in the English countryside be without a bit of snow?"

Edith smiled weakly. "You're right."

He tilted his head. "Please, stop worrying. Everything's going to be fine. Now, do sit down and have some breakfast."

"All right." She did sit down at the table, but her stomach was in a knot and she couldn't eat a thing. Instead, she poured herself some tea and stirred absentmindedly at it.

"What's the menu for tonight?" Anthony asked, in the hope that talking about it would ease her worries.

Edith raised her eyes from her cup. "Oh, I kept all the traditional dishes and added a few new ones – there'll be oyster soup and roast turkey, of course, and then braised belly pork, slow cooked pigs heart in red wine, and roast quails. And pheasant pies, and sausages -"

" _Golly!_ "

"For dessert, we'll have the plum pudding, with the ring and the bachelor's button and all the rest of it in it – it's Sybil's favorite -, and all the old desserts, the Elvas plums and almonds and raisins, and crystallized fruit and ginger. I thought about adding a coffee blancmange or a jelly, but I decided not to. Cook'll be busy enough as it is."

Anthony chuckled. "I expect we'll all have frightful indigestion by tomorrow morning."

Edith turned serious. "I hope not. You don't think it's too much, do you?"

"Of course not." Anthony decided it was best to distract her from her worries about the dinner. "Oh, I forgot to tell you yesterday: everyone was talking about your letter to The Times, in London" he said, spreading some butter on a piece of toast.

"Really?" Edith frowned. "What did they have to say about it?"

"Some people liked it... and some people didn't, of course. Viscount Branksome was indignant, but his son – I think you know him, Evelyn Napier? - thought it was very interesting. He "

Edith's face relaxed a bit. "Oh, Evelyn was there? He's a darling. Send him my love if you see him again."

"Uh- _oh_. Should I be jealous?" His mouth was twisted in a subtle upward quirk.

"Shut up!" she laughed. "He's an old friend."

"A _handsome_ old friend." he looked at her across the table with a sparkle in his eyes.

"Oh, stop it, you!" she threw her napkin at him, chuckling. She shook her head as she took a sip from her cup of tea. "Who else was there? Anyone I might know?"

"Let me think about it - the Callender-Becketts were there, and Lord Savident… oh, and Lady Jervas, of course. She was thrilled about your article, and she asked us for dinner, next week" he cracked an egg open with a spoon.

"That's so nice of her." Edith smiled. "Well, I must say I'm glad we're not being shunned by society as Papa predicted. He told me neither of us would ever be received in London again if I wrote on a newspaper using my name. ' _Every door in the City will be slammed in your face_ ' were his exact words, I think."

"Your father, bless his soul, has always been prone to exaggeration, my dear. And, if you remember, I told you I couldn't care less if it happened - I never liked London much, anyway" he stretched out his arm across the table to touch her hand. "Listen. You have a right to speak your mind, and to hell with what anyone else thinks." He smiled. "Anyway, my dear, the world is changing."

"Not that much, and not fast enough." She smiled back. "You amaze me, you know. I never thought you'd encourage me – I mean, writing is not a very ladylike occupation, and it puts you in a rather awkward position." She nibbled on a slice of toast.

"Does it? I thought having a journalist wife made me look all the more interesting!" his eyes crinkled at the corners. "All the ladies in London were chasing after me, asking me all about you" he cackled. "I must admit, I was puffed up like a peacock."

"Well, if that's the case..." Edith smiled and bit into another piece of toast with renewed appetite. "But I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable with a horde of London ladies following _my husband_ around."

"Now who's jealous?" He shook his head and snorted. "Did you ever hear from the editor of The Sketch again, by the way?"

She nodded, with her mouth full. "Yes. He has written back, repeating his offer, but I'm not sure what to do. He asks if I'm ever in London."

"I think you should go and see him. It seems rude not to…" the bridge of his nose wrinkled. "… and my charms would be impossible to resist if I could say my wife is a columnist for The Sketch!"


End file.
